There's Fire All Around Me
by Cartwheellou
Summary: The tears, the drinks, their bodies—everything is burning. Nothing is more wrenching than the pain in my chest when I look at them. "I'm—I'm just so happy for you!" John gets drunk on Alex's and Eliza's wedding night. One-sided Lams. Canon compliant. Oneshot.


The drink clenched in my hand is the only thing I focus on; I know that if I stop thinking about it, the cup will slip from my fingers. I grip the unyielding glass, the surely warm liquid feeling cool in contrast to my burning skin, sloshing out and running over my fingers as I stagger towards Alexander, unable to even keep proper footing. It's been a long night. At least, it already feels like it has been a long night.

Alex has his hand around Eliza's waist, snug and firm; they laugh in unison with Angelica, faces pointing towards each other in an intimate fashion, the tips of their noses brushing, their noises and breaths sharing the same space in front of their parted lips. I feel something in my chest tighten, like watching something teetering on the edge of a table, almost _almost_ falling over but not quite. It's like when you don't lunge to catch it but you're waiting because it is _going_ to fall. Their lips push together for a second, but in that second the line of their bodies push together and Alex's hand tightens on her waist. Eliza's hand comes up to rest on his chest and even after they pulled back their bodies are still pressed together and her hand is still on his chest. And it fell but I'm too late to catch it.

I continue on my path towards them, no doubt making a small rukus on my way over, one that soon catches Alex's attention. "John!" he exclaims, and his whole face lights up and his back straightens, and their bodies come away from each other _just a little bit_. I feel a small sense of vindictiveness, because _I_ did that, but when I see that Eliza's face has also lighten up, it makes all the nausea rush to my head because really, _I'm the only thing that's wrong here_.

Eliza is beautiful. She looks so good and right pressed against Alexander, and whenever he looks down at her he looks like he is looking at the heart of the revolution itself. Like she's his sole reason for fighting, like she's what he's going to come home to at the end of the war, like she's who he is going to spend the rest of his life with. The worst part is it's all entirely true.

"Alex!" I cry back. He lets go of Eliza to hold onto my back as I run into him, practically collapsing in his arms. I bury my face in his chest, and something ugly comes out of my throat—choked, muffled, terrible sobbing. Alex laughs, and puts his arms under mine and hoists me up so I'm standing straight again. I throw my arm over his shoulders and pull him into me. I look down at him and Eliza, who is still very close to us. Both of them look concerned and amused, but they also have this small undercurrent of mirth and bliss because dammit, they just got _married_. My tears are still pouring down my face; I can feel them dripping off my chin; I don't think I ever cried so hard in my _life_. I suck in a big breath through my nose to try and keep any snot from coming out, and it sounds wet and nasty. The hand not currently clasped around Alex is both still holding my drink and swiping at my face. Hot tears, hotter than my burning skin, are spilling over my eyes and over my fingers and over my cheeks, and they just don't seem to _stop_. My face feels like there is bright fire under my skin, buzzing and humming and burning.

"John, is something wrong?" Alex asks, a small smirk curling his lips. He is relaxed, and almost gives the impression of a spectator despite the fact that he is tucked into my side, like an adult watching a small child throw a tantrum and wow they really want you to be angry but it's so _hard_ when they're just so _cute_. He has a hand around my back and snug to my waist, and I smile unfoundedly, tears now dripping into my open mouth, the taste of salt hardly flushing out the burn of alcohol at all. Eliza is smothering a laugh with the back of her hand, and I clench my jaw against a sudden fountain of rage because if I was a _woman_ clinging to her newlywed husband, there would be _shit_ going down, but it's _fine_ because it's just _John_. And since he has no shot anyway, she doesn't even need to be a little concerned. A harsher sob bursts from my throat because it is undeniably _true_.

"Buddy?" Alex tries again, nudging me with a small hip-check to get my attention, still no worry staining his tone. Like nothing is wrong with all of this.

"I'm—I'm just so _happy_ for you!" I choke through my sobs, burying my face in Alexander's shoulder so I don't have to put of pretenses of a cheerful expression—not that one is needed, anyway. I'm already bawling; a smile isn't going to make or break the facade.

That's what a best friend is supposed to do. They're supposed to get drunk at your wedding and cry tears of joy for you. They aren't supposed to get drunk and stew in their own misery. Lafayette and Hercules are doing it for real; my attempt is close enough.

Alex brings a hand up to pet the back of my head in what is possibly mock consolation. "There, there," he cooes. "Everything's gonna be okay."

 _For you_ , I think. _For you, everything's great. You don't have to worry about being irrecoverably gay for your married best friend. You don't have to stand off to the side and watch him be happy without you._

I leave them alone a little while later, because a sobbing best friend can only take up so much of a man's time on his wedding night. I retreat to the bar where Angelica is sitting and fall into the seat next to her, watching the liquid move in her cup as she swirls it around in rhythmic motions.

She doesn't say anything to me. She doesn't look at me, or acknowledge me, and I don't even know if she is aware of my presence. I try briefly to catch her gaze, but her stare is vacant. Instead I slam the rest of my drink back, relishing in the burning path it takes down my throat. I lay my head on my folded arms, face tucked down so that the only thing I can see is the small bit of counter between Angelica's drink and the edge of the bar. I clench and unclench my hands repeatedly, trying to break up the crunchy, sticky layer of dried alcohol and dried tears that coats them. I rub my fingers together to try and ball all of the crud up, to try to wipe it off, to try to flick it away. It doesn't work so well.

A few more seconds pass before pain swells in my throat, and my face starts to sting again _hot hot hot_. The world turns and blurs and smudges; I close my eyes against the view only to be gifted with the feeling of more burning liquid pushing out of my eyes and trailing down my cheeks in rivers of fire. Small paths of fire. I open my eyes to see that the wood between Angelica's cup and the edge of the bar has become dotted with small beads of water. I see another drop land silently, as silent as my own tears wetting my sleeves. We are both silent.

I'm glad that no words need to be said.


End file.
